someone told me once that birds and fish are closely related. 

this is actually true, in-so-far as all creatures that evolved 

with a spine can be traced backward to one species 

of fish. this fish is the one we all know that grew legs 

and crawled from the ocean 400 million years ago,

leaving a trail of primordial sludge all the way 

from the soft seabed to the reclining chair mounted 

over what she would have called the oriental rug, catholic 

radio station always on in the background.

once when we were shelling peas

i asked my grandmother if she thought it was right 

for me to marry another woman. she just stared at me,

mouth open, gills fluttering uselessly.

the only sounds i could hear were a lazy grasshopper’s wings

and the thud of the peas hitting the bottom of the bucket. 

on summer evenings i like to stand

on the back deck, listening for peepers.

their sound is unmistakable, a sign of spring in the maritimes,

but i’m not confident that i’d know one to see it.

my grandmother stands on the same deck every morning 

and tosses bread to the seagulls;

we’ve all begged her to stop because she’s started to attract 

rats. she says she doesn’t see how they would know about it,

and anyway, she’s not feeding the rats, she’s feeding the seagulls

and it’s none of our business. i tell her that rats and seagulls are closely related. 

somewhere in this very same moment a cat 

catches a rat in her mouth and shakes it until its spine breaks.

neither the cat nor the rat will search for meaning in this.

my grandmother fears fire even though she’s never seen 

how one can burn. her fear has evolved, 

passed down from mother to daughter from a time 

when acadian women had to watch, from the sea,

as their homes were burned to the ground by the english.

when the deportations ended, when they were allowed to return, 

they pulled themselves from the ocean floor 

walked the two thousand miles back to their homes

with their spines straight and unbroken.